


Waist Deep and Sinking

by lunabee34 (Lorraine)



Category: Live Free or Die Hard
Genre: Age Difference, Developing Relationship, M/M, PTSD, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-08
Updated: 2009-12-08
Packaged: 2017-10-04 07:03:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lorraine/pseuds/lunabee34
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the fire sale, Matt's not doing so well.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Waist Deep and Sinking

Title from Bruce Springsteen's [Real World](http://www.lyricsdomain.com/2/bruce_springsteen/real_world.html)

 

Every time he hears a car backfire, Matt has to fight the urge to drop and look for cover. He's also pretty dicey with elevators and he doesn't think he'll be flying again any time soon. Or ever.

Matt's not scared exactly. More like he can't quite shake the adrenaline rush of the fire sale even weeks later. He still feels the slick metal of a gun in his palm, the bright starburst of his knee shattering, the acrid burn of smoke in the back of his throat. Matt wonders if this is what McClane's felt like for the last twenty years—this itchy restlessness, his body's constant demand to _be the fuck ready_.

He doesn't ask.

McClane would probably tell him the truth if he did. And it's not like Matt doesn't have the opportunity. McClane is around a lot more than Matt expected him to be. Matt figures saving the world together creates a certain kind of bond. Or something. For all Matt knows, McClane is just bored. Whatever the reason, Matt sees McClane a couple times a week at least and he refuses to over think things. Matt's not one to look a gift horse in the mouth.

"You ever gonna get furniture, kid?" McClane asks one Saturday night. He points at the mostly empty room with his Bud. Matt has a couch and a bed and a wall of technology and a sad little coffee table he picked up off the curb when he moved in.

"Why?" Matt says. "You too good to eat in front of the TV?"

McClane snorts and flips him off.

Outside in the alley, someone slams the lid of the complex's dumpster, a bone-jarring reverberation that shouldn't rattle Matt but does. He flinches.

McClane doesn't say anything but he scoots closer on the couch when he reaches for the remote and for the rest of the night, their shoulders brush and their knees bump and Matt's heartbeat gradually slows until he feels as calm as he ever does anymore. As he's leaving, McClane does the strangest thing. He claps Matt on the shoulder just like always, but his hand lingers longer than is strictly necessary, his fingers curling warmly around the curve of muscle there, his thumb making a slow circle on Matt's collarbone through the thin cotton of his shirt before he pulls away. Matt takes a deep breath but by the time he's thought of something to say, McClane is already pulling out of the parking lot.

Matt takes a long time to fall asleep that night, his shoulder thrumming with remembered touch.

The next time Matt sees McClane is in a dive a few blocks from Matt's apartment. This place has the best stromboli Matt has ever put in his mouth and penny pitchers of domestic after eight. The music could use some work, but Matt supposes nobody ever actually kicked it from exposure to Molly Hatchet.

"So," Matt says around a mouthful of sandwich. "Lucy IMed me earlier. She's dating this guy from her Economics class. Braden Milford Thompson the Third or some yuppy shit like that. Lucy seems to like him, though."

"Sounds like a tool," McClane says but the look on his face is so relieved, so bizarrely happy that Matt's taken aback.

At some point in the evening, every chick in the bar—eighteen to eighty—finds an excuse to slink by their table, all of them hoping to catch McClane's attention. One woman even asks McClane for a light, leaning in way too close with her cleavage practically in his face when he sparks up her Virginia Slim, but McClane doesn't even notice. He keeps his eyes glued to Matt all night, grinning this stupid grin that creeps Matt out at the same time that it makes Matt think the kind of dirty thoughts he's pretty sure McClane would clock him for.

Later when Matt's jerking off in the shower, he flashes for a minute on that grin, on the way McClane's shirt stretches tight across his chest, on the deep rasp of McClane's laugh. Matt calls up the memory of McClane's thumb stroking his clavicle and comes on the shower door in a hot arc. "Shake it off, Farrell," Matt says to himself when he's getting after the glass with some Windex. "Don't be a dumbass."

McClane clearly didn't get the memo, though, because he keeps touching Matt _all the time_ in ways that Matt is positive are accidental. Unfortunately, his dick can't tell the difference. If McClane was anybody else, Matt would swear he was flirting, but he's not anybody else. He's John Fucking McClane and no way is he coming on to a skinny hacker _guy_ half his age.

Finally in the elevator at the Bureau, Matt decides he's had enough.

The FBI won't leave either of them alone; some days Matt spends more time talking to suits than surfing the web and he's glad to help fix what Gabriel tore down and he's ecstatic to be getting paid for that help, but today it's all just too much.

Usually Matt takes the stairs no matter how many floors he has to climb, but McClane's with him this time so he sucks it up and punches the button for the elevator. As soon as he crosses the threshold into that tiny little box, Matt can barely breathe. His hands start shaking and he thinks he's having a heart attack. He must look like shit because McClane reaches out and splays one wide palm on Matt's lower back; with the other, he brushes Matt's long bangs from his eyes in a gesture so tender, so intimate, Matt can barely stand it.

"You know what, McClane? I don't even care anymore if you know." Matt flings himself into the far corner of the elevator and flattens himself up against the fabric covered walls. "You have got to stop touching me, man. It's driving me crazy. I know you don't mean anything by it, but you gotta cut that shit out. I can't take it anymore."

McClane shakes his head. "Sometimes you really are a dumb kid, Farrell." And then he hits the hold button and closes the distance between them. McClane kisses better than any wet dream Matt's ever had; he threads his fingers through Matt's hair and cups his jaw and presses every inch of his hard body into Matt's. McClane's hands scrabble underneath Matt's T-shirt like he's skin hungry, like he's touch starved, like he's wanted to do this for so long that he can't take his time. Matt moans into McClane's mouth and McClane shudders against him before he pulls away. "Come on," he says. "We gotta start her up again or somebody will come down here with a crowbar."

Matt has no idea what he does for the next two hours. He thinks at some point he volunteered to retool the Bureau's website for next to nothing but he can't say for sure. He'll ask McClane later. Right now, all he wants to think about is McClane not even waiting for his apartment door to close before he pushes Matt up against the wall and trails open mouthed kisses down his throat.

"God," McClane says. "Wanted this so much." He grinds the heel of his hand on Matt's cock through his jeans and Matt closes his eyes and lets his head thump back against the wall. "Wanted you so much." He unzips Matt's Levis and drops to his knees and Matt loses himself fucking into the wet heat of McClane's mouth. Matt comes before he wants to, his fingers wrapped tight around the back of McClane's neck.

When he can think again, Matt slides down the wall and kisses McClane, tasting himself on McClane's tongue, on his swollen lips. "I want you to fuck me," he says and if Matt hadn't come already, the look on McClane's face at that moment would have done the trick.

McClane hauls Matt up and watches Matt spread himself out on the bed, watches him coat his fingers with lube and fuck himself until his dick is hard again, until his body is flushed and sweating. Finally Matt can't wait anymore. "Please," he begs in a voice that's broken and breathless. "Please."

McClane strips and rolls on a condom and then he presses inside, slowly, slowly, until Matt thinks he'll die from the pleasure. McClane fucks him for what feels like hours, long unhurried strokes, his mouth busy sucking up the blood on Matt's shoulder blades. When McClane comes, he buries himself all the way to the hilt and holds on to Matt, shuddering through his orgasm, his fingers leaving bruises on Matt's hips.

Long after McClane falls asleep, Matt stays awake to watch his chest rise and fall as he breathes, his feet twitch as he dreams. When Matt finally nods off, McClane is spooned up behind him, his fingers tangled in the sheets at Matt's waist like he can't help touching even in his sleep, like he can't get close enough, like he's never letting go.


End file.
